by Duncan Kyle
'Sure does, and damned costly it is! Horace, why did he leave that instruction?'
Malory shrugged. He looked benign and unconcerned. There must have been a good reason. A very good reason.'
'And we -' Pilgrim's exasperation was mounting- 'aren't even allowed to know about it. Not permitted to - look what it says: "Nor is it to be questioned at any time, for any reason." Horace, it makes no sense at all! Even you must-'
"Even me?' Malory enquired with soft malevolence.
Pilgrim at once raised an apologetic hand. 'I'm sorry, Horace. You worked for the guy, I know that. But it's the hell of a legacy, you'll allow, to commit your heirs and successors to payments like this without any explanation at all?
Malory had strolled to the window and was looking out towards the dome of St Paul's. After a moment he said, 'I suppose I can appreciate your feelings. But then you didn't know him.'
'He died six years before I was even born!'
'Quite. But I did, you see. And he was a most remarkable man. Oh, most remarkable. He was gifted with extraordinary foresight, you know, among many other things. Almost never wrong.' He turned. 'I tell you, Laurence, even now it would never cross my mind to countermand one of his instructions.'
Pilgrim was staring at Malory in clear puzzlement. 'Not after forty-four years!'
'No.'
'I'm sorry, Horace, but it certainly does occur to me.'
'So I see.' Malory pursed his lips. 'I can only advise against it. That's my role now, is it not, to advise? Well, I would suggest this sleeping dog be allowed to lie.'
But Pilgrim had the bone between his teeth. Everything in him : the poverty of his youth, the summa cum laude from the Harvard Business School, the years on Wall Street, dictated that no sum of this magnitude, indeed of any magnitude, or for that matter any sum at all, should be paid over to anyone without explanation. Not on anybody's say-so, and certainly not on the instructions of some long-dead mystery man.
'I'm sorry, Horace, but that way I can't work. We have to find out something.'
'I remind you,' Malory said with the utmost seriousness, 'of Sir Basil's instruction. '
'And I hear you. But the decision has to be mine, now.' Pilgrim paused. 'Look, Horace, I'll meet you half way. We'll keep it close and quiet, right?' He pressed the intercom button. 'Get Graves in here, will you, please.'
With a sigh, Malory sank into a chair. They waited in .silence for a few moments. A tap came on the door, and Jacques Graves entered.
'Just once more,' Malory said. 'Don't.'
Pilgrim ignored him. 'Sit down, Jacques. We have a little problem here.'
Graves sat obediently. He was a man of a little over forty, dark-haired, lightly-tanned, and he moved with easy, athletic grace. He had fluent command of several languages, and a wide understanding of finance and of people. Pilgrim, introducing him into Hillyard, Cleef, had described him as 'a high-grade troubleshooter'. Graves came originally from New Orleans French stock, but he was, in another of Pilgrim's phrases, 'International Man'.
He nodded to Malory. 'Sir Horace.' Even the accent was neutral.
'We have a payment situation here,' Pilgrim said, 'which makes no sense, at least to me. For sixty years Hillyard, Cleef has been paying fifty thousand pounds a year to a bank in Switzerland. There is no explanation. All there is-well, we have a kind of hereditary note to the Senior Partner that the payment must continue. Further, Jacques, it must not be queried.'
'Ouch,' said Jacques Graves.
'Ouch is right. Now, the instruction was given by Sir Basil Zaharoff one hell of a long time back - he died in 1936. Sir Horace has continued to, well, to honour that instruction. That was his privilege. I feel now, though, that maybe the time has come to ask a few discreet questions.'
'Three million paid,' Graves said.
'Right. So what we'll do is this. You're going to Switzerland, Jacques, first available plane. And what you do there is you go to the bank in question, the Ziirichsbank, and you ask them, very discreetly, whose account this goddam money goes into. Maybe they won't tell you, we all know it's against Swiss law to let these things out. But you do your best, Jacques. Understand?'
'Yes.'
'Your best best.'
'Sure.'
'But don't stir up any mud. I mean it. The word here is discretion. If the bank won't play, maybe there's some guy works there likes champagne or girls or motor-cars.'
'I'll be there in the morning. First thing,' Graves said.
When he'd gone, Malory tried once more. 'I really do wish you wouldn't.'
'Sure,' said Pilgrim, I appreciate that. But -' he shrugged - 'different people take different views. You coming in to lunch?'
Malory took the gold hunter from his waistcoat pocket. 'I think perhaps not. There's a man I must see at my club.'
In fact he ate alone, chewing lengthily at some overroasted saddle of mutton, and afterward sat for an hour with a half-bottle of claret. He was filled with foreboding.
Jacques Graves took the afternoon plane. That night he stayed at The Palace Hotel in Zurich. The following morning at ten o'clock he telephoned the Ziirichsbank and spoke first to a telephonist, and then briefly to a Mr Kleiber. He introduced himself as a representative of Hillyard, Cleef, and arranged an appointment with Kleiber for eleven-thirty. By eleven-forty his conversation with Kleiber was ended, and he was waiting, in a room with a locked door, for 'something we have for you'.
Kleiber had been unforthcoming. Graves's first sight of him had not been encouraging: Kleiber was in his thirties, fair hair cut en brosse, a man of medium height whose forehead, above heavy-framed glasses, still bore the residual marks left by ancient pustules of adolescent acne. He was dressed in grey, and it matched his eyes. He was a grey-looking man altogether, who did not offer to shake hands, merely gesturing to the chair which stood on Graves's side of the table. He then waited for his visitor to speak.
Graves looked at him for a moment, familiar with the ploy. Without the lubrication of conventional politeness, any opening acquired a harsh quality. So he began with deliberate triteness.
He said, 'You know Hillyard, Cleef, of course.'
The Swiss nodded once.
'We have not had many dealings with Zürichsbank over the years.'
'Please show proof of your identity.'
Patiently Graves showed him a letter which said, on Hillyard, Cleef stationery, 'Mr Jacques Graves is acting in my name and with my full authority.' Pilgrim had signed it. Kleiber examined it with ostentatious care, thumbnail picking at the embossed letters of the bank's name. 'Go on, please.'
Graves said, 'We have something of a mystery. You will be aware that every year on the seventeenth of July the sum of fifty thousand pounds is paid by Hillyard, Cleef into an account here.'
'Yes.'
Did this bastard speak only in monosyllables, Graves wondered. Kleiber was as opaque and uncommunicative as a concrete block.
'You may also know that these payments have been made every year since nineteen-twenty.'
Kleiber nodded.
'The mystery,' Graves said, 'is that the original authorization for these payments was made by a man now dead. At some point the record of their purpose has been mislaid. We continue to pay, naturally, because that is our obligation, but we would now like to know -' He stopped.
A tiny smile twitched Kleiber's lips before he said, 'Unfortunate.'
'And expensive,' Graves agreed.
'Also careless.'
'As I say, we would simply like to know to whom the money is being paid, whether to the bank, or to an individual, or to a company. In complete confidence, of course.'
'Wait.' Kleiber rose and left the room. A lock clicked as the door closed. Graves, familiar with Swiss caution and precaution, was unsurprised.
A minute later Kleiber was back, resuming his seat across the table. He said, 'The payment goes into a numbered account.'
'Yes, I know. The number -'
Kleiber shook his head.
'It is a matter of law. I can give you no information.'
Graves said, 'We hoped you might be disposed to help us.'
'No. The law is specific, as are the bank's own regulations.'
Graves dangled his feeble carrot. 'It would be nice to think our two banks could find other ways to co-operate.'
Kleiber's face was stony. 'Mr Graves, it is impossible. You knew that before you came here.'
Graves shrugged. 'All right, Mr Kleiber.' He rose. 'The door's locked?'
Kleiber nodded, looking at Graves with pebbly eyes. Then he said, 'It is not unknown that people seeking illicit information about numbered accounts approach the staff of the bank. I should warn you that such approaches are pointless.'
'I have no intention -' Graves began.
He was interrupted a second time. 'Only a very few people here have access to numbered accounts,' Kleiber said, 'and all of them, I promise you, will at once report any such approach to the police. The police would prosecute. The man who made the approach would go to prison. It is the law.'
'I understand. Perhaps you'll unlock the door now.'
'In a moment,' said Kleiber. Again came that twitching and superior smile. Briefly Graves wanted to hit the pudding face. 'You will not leave empty-handed, Mr Graves. There is something we have for you.'
'What?'
'Wait, please.'
Kleiber left the room; once more the lock clicked. He returned almost immediately holding an envelope, which he laid on the table. 'For your principal.'
'What is it?'
Kleiber's twitchy smile now became a small smirk. 'My bank holds an instruction that should any enquiry be made about deposits made in the account, that packet is to go to your principal.'
'My principal?'
'The principal of the company, or other organization making the enquiry, Mr Graves. In this case Mr Laurence Pilgrim, since we are aware Sir Horace Malory is now standing aside.'
Graves picked up the envelope. It was not addressed.
'Follow instructions,' Kleiber said. 'It is for your principal. Do not be tempted to open it.'
Behind Graves the other door clicked open. He said, a little sardonically, 'Well, at least you're letting me out.'
'Good day, Mr Graves.'
He stood for a moment in the corridor outside the secure interview chamber, turning the bulky envelope in his hands. It was manila, sealed with red wax, in an image which appeared to be that of an eagle. A guard, in a grey uniform watched him from a desk at the end of the corridor. It occurred to Graves that the envelope was far from new: the shine from the paper-maker's calendar rollers had gone, though the strong paper remained pristine. How long, he wondered, had the envelope been here, in the Zurichsbank, awaiting the question?
Briefly Graves debated what he should do. He had been well aware, before Kleiber told him, of the hazards of tampering with the employees of Swiss banks, but he had tampered before and would again, so Kleiber's clear threat didn't discourage him. But the envelope was unexpected; and since it was for his principal, it should be delivered at once. He could always come back.
He collected his document case from the guard, placed the envelope inside it, and entered the lift. In the street outside he had to wait two or three minutes for a taxi.
At the airport a disappointment awaited him: the British Airways flight had left and there was an engine fault on the Swissair flight to Heathrow. It was two hours before the jet took off. When he arrived by taxi at Hillyard, Cleef, he was unable to deliver the envelope to his principal. Pilgrim, was, by now, on the M4, being driven to Gloucestershire, and dinner with some Nigerians interested in the funding of a steel mill.
The envelope must wait until morning.
Sir Horace was counting. Two, three, four of the daffodils were showing yellow; a good many more seemed about to burst their buds. Even the tulips were swelling. Early, he thought. But then, the garden was well sheltered.
He strolled round the corner, wondering about Jacques Graves and when he would return. There was no doubt Graves was efficient, but something about the man put him off. Seemed to wear some kind of scent: one of those concoctions advertised for after a shave. Standing too near him once, Malory had caught a whiff of it and was instantly reminded of the interior of his new Bentley. Leather and wood, some such nonsense. Malory had not liked that smell, and he did not like the scent in his nostrils now. It was clear and he recognized it: the smell of danger.
He had quite forgotten the door. When he reached it he halted, appalled. In some way it caught the spring sunshine and reflected it back in dazzling, coppery sheen. God, he thought.
'Oh, Sir Horace, Mr Pilgrim was asking for you,' said Mrs Frobisher.
'Hardly unusual,' he murmured, easing off his coat.
'Yes, sir. He did say -'
'I'm sure he did. Is Mr Graves back?'
'Yes, Sir Horace.'
'Mm. Coffee first, I think.' It was more self-discipline than self-indulgence. Horace Malory, sipping his coffee and removing the hand from the Romeo No.3, positively burned to know how Graves had fared with the unforgiving Swiss. But he had learned long ago that violent curiosity was best allowed to subdue itself. He therefore drank a second cup.
There was a curious expression on Pilgrim's face when Malory entered the modernistic office: an expression he tried to analyse and couldn't quite place.
'Horace, I wanted to see you.' Excitement, perhaps?
'I hear Graves is back. How did he fare with the clockwork neutrals?'
'They wouldn't talk.'
'Hardly unexpected. Still, I must say I'm rather relieved.'
'But he did bring something back.'
'Significant, is it?' The scent was back in Malory's nostrils, stronger now.
'Like something out of a bad B-movie.' Briefly Pilgrim recounted what had occurred at the Zürichsbank.
'What was in the envelope?'
Pilgrim picked up a folder which lay beside his hand. 'Why don't you read it, Horace? We can talk about it later.'
'Very well.' He still found Pilgrim's expression elusive. 'Is it of vast import, Laurence?'
'I don't know,' Pilgrim said. 'Probably not.'
As he spoke, Malory suddenly divined the look that Pilgrim wore. He had not seen it before, on that confident face.
It was doubt.
The top sheet was a letter. Paperclipped behind it were a good many sheets of typescript. Malory polished his spectacles, and started on the letter. It was signed with a set of initials: H.G.D.
'Sir Basil would have known better than to approach Zürichsbank. Tempted, as he must have been, he would have thought long and hard, and then put temptation from him.
You, whoever you may be, have not. The annual and presumably unexplained payment must have struck you as requiring an explanation, and since you demand it, it is forthcoming.
Let me tell you how.
Attached to this letter, you will find the first page of a narrative. I assume you will read it, but in case your inclination is to throw it away before you reach the end, I must advise you not to do so.
You will find that the first part of the narrative contains instructions for obtaining the second, the second for the third, and so on. There are seven parts altogether.
I believe you should find the narrative interesting, and I hope interest alone will direct you to pursue the other parts, even if, as you will, you find difficulties in your way. But I must add a warning. If, within three months, you have not obtained parts one to six, part seven will be directed into other hands. The arrangements are made, and there is no way in which you can alter or affect them.
Should part seven fall into those other hands, I confidently predict that the consequences will be catastrophic. I choose the word with care. It is in no sense an overstatement.'
Sir Horace removed his spectacles, laid them on his blotter, and stared for a while at the wall opposite. The letter frightened him, though less for what it said than for what he knew of Basil Zaha
roff. A secret had been buried, long ago and at great cost. Sir Basil, who never undervalued a halfpenny in his calculations, would only have entered into such an agreement for the most pressing of reasons, and in extreme need. That was why he had advised letting the sleeping dog lie: because Malory's knowledge of Zaharoff made him wary of the consequence of other action. I should have insisted, he thought angrily. I should have prevented Pilgrim's asking.
But he hadn't. And this narrative, Malory now felt horribly sure, constituted an opening of Pandora's Box.
He came out of his chair, walked sharply to Pilgrim's office, and pushed the door open. Pilgrim stood by the window with two men, pointing out at something. One of the men held an elaborate camera and had a second hanging from his neck.
'Laurence, if I could have a word?'
Pilgrim turned, 'Horace, these two gentlemen are from Fortune magazine. Gentlemen, Sir Horace Malory.'
"Morning.' Malory nodded briefly.
'They're here,' Pilgrim said, 'to do a piece about the gold showing.'
The man without the cameras introduced himself. 'Jim Coverton, Sir Horace. And, say, we'd very much like you in the picture. Will that be okay?'
Malory glanced at him. 'Perhaps. But Laurence, I've just read-'
'They're doing some kind of profile on me,' Pilgrim said, with well-contrived modesty. 'Won't take too long for the pictures. You want to come down with us, Horace?'
Malory did not, but he went, walking fuming down the stairs, leaving the lift to the others, and wondering where Pilgrim got his extraordinary sense of priorities.
He succeeded in grasping Pilgrim's arm while they waited to enter the viewing room, far down in the basement. 'Laurence, I'm anxious about that letter. I think we have -'
Pilgrim said, 'Did you read the stuff that came with it?'
'Not yet.'
'Crap,' Pilgrim said decisively. 'Ancient history. No contemporary relevance at all. Stop worrying, Horace. Come and have your picture taken.'
Malory followed them inside. It was two minutes to eleven. On the hour, lighting appeared behind a blank glass wall, and a soft humming began. Through the glass an immense strong-room door became visible, opening slowly on a time clock. 'This vault,' Pilgrim was saying, 'is as safe as Fort Knox. And has to be. Gentlemen, the Hillyard, Cleef gold. Take your pictures, Mr Bauer. Quite a sight, isn't it?'
